Tell it to Henry Howard, if it pleases you to hear how he scoffs at me.

For he, queen--he loves me not!" "Poor unfortunate Jane!" exclaimed the queen, compassionately.
Jane uttered a low cry, and rose from her knees.

That was too much.
Her enemy commiserated her.

She, who was to blame for her sorrow--she bemoaned her fate.
Ah, she could have strangled the queen; she could have plunged a dagger into her heart, because she dared to commiserate her.
"I have complied with your condition, queen," said she, breathing hurriedly.

"Will you now comply with my request ?" "And will you really be an advocate for this unthankful, cruel man, who does not love you?
Proudly and coldly he passes your beauty by, and you--you intercede for him!" "Queen, true love thinks not of itself! It sacrifices itself.